


After-Party

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: We Like To Party! [3]
Category: Cable and Deadpool
Genre: Begging, Feminization, Humiliation, M/M, a lot happens here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-21 23:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17651612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Wade takes Nate home.





	After-Party

**Author's Note:**

> Huge, huge thanks to ahimsabitches and largishcat for their help beta-ing this. I'm absolutely useless at editing my own work (as Constant Readers have no doubt noticed by this point). I'm pleased to be able to post this, and I hope it's as satisfying a conclusion to you all as it is to me.

It was often easier to get through life, crazy and senseless and weirdly self-referential as it could be, by accepting that it was fiction.

At least if he is a comic book character, some edgy, memeing asshole with a questionable dudebro nerd fanbase, that takes the sting out of the way everything seems to bite him in the ass. At least if that’s the case, he can jive with the idea that somehow his suffering was funny, or at least cinematic.

Wade thinks about that while he and Nate circulate the party. It’s a perfect place for something horribly dramatic to happen, a new (or old, let's not be too picky) villain showing up or something, a loud and messy fight to follow. The kind of bullshit where people get hurt, but no one plot-important. It feels exactly like the kind of situation where, when the dust settles after some drama, there’s a mess to blame on Wade and maybe, if he’s extra lucky, motivation for character development.

Except the party goes on, a big, shiny, red button, just daring the universe to push it; ripe with unspent dramatic potential, and boring as hell.

Hell would maybe be less boring. Surely unending torment didn’t get predictable.

It’s these drawn out, agonizingly average moments that shake Wade’s certainty in the comic book thing. No one was reading about him standing around listening to Nate talk about the importance of unions in salvaging the economic prospects of the incoming generations of blah blah blah. Who in the hell would even think to _write_ that bullshit, if it wasn’t all to cover the introduction of a really cool new plot point.

Fanfiction, he decides around forty-five minutes after Nate led the way out of that nice empty kitchen. Clearly this is a fanfiction, the real nuanced bits of life almost always are. The official Marvel stuff has to leave juicy make-outs as subtext, but the fans, bless their smut-loving, angst-toting hearts, the fans love the juicy make-outs.

So, judging by the extremely good kissing bit back there (thus far the only ‘worth it’ part of the night), it’s gotta be fanfiction. Considering that Wade has just heard the phrase ‘deadweight loss’ used by an actual human being in casual conversation, this was the kind of fanfiction that was going to fade to black when they got to the good bits. Given that Nate had been so into it earlier, the author evidently cared enough about Wade’s happiness to at least imply that he’d get laid, so no worries about that dreaded UST.

 **_How does fade-to-black work in real life?_ **The yellow box asks.

White replies before Wade can, laughing. _Oh, you know, when you fall in bed and just black out? Fade-to-black, more like cut-to-black._

“Like being really really drunk,” Wade mutters to himself, twisting the stem of the champagne flute that had replaced his ridiculously tiny piece of cake. He missed the ability to get stupidly drunk on champagne. Champagne drunk was a very _s_ _pecial_ drunk. If the author of this fic actually gave a damn about his happiness, they would let him be drunk, if only so he didn’t have to endure another fifteen or so minutes of this _absolutely horrible_ conversation.

Authors are like God, which is to say they’re cruel, indifferent, and probably laughing at Wade’s every struggle. But he could deal with that, and thinking about it was distracting enough to keep him occupied mentally while Nate steered him around the crowd and talked about money with people who had so much of it they didn’t understand the concept of it anymore.

He doesn’t really tune back into the conversation until Nate leans in and kisses his temple, right there in the middle of a bunch of onlookers, and says, “You look tired.”

Which is a lie; Wade has two looks: ‘full bore’ and ‘off’, but he lets his eyes drop half closed and nods, smiling softly. And thank _God_ or the author, or whoever, because Nate makes more of those conveniently oh-so-polite excuses and then steers him back through the foyer and out the door. He waits until they’re safely away from all the prying eyes and ears to groan and sag back, arms loose and floppy at his sides.

“That was the _worst_ , holy _fucksticks_ Nate, tell me you at least got the job done.”

Nate laughs and it makes Wade smile even while he’s trying to show exactly how much that ‘party’ had obviously sucked. Nate’s hand finds Wade’s shoulder, just resting there, and that’s all Wade needs. Between that laugh and that casual, gentle hand, he knows exactly where the night is going. The little bits of doubt that always circulate between the hoping and the knowing lift off like a swarm of excited birds, circling in the too-small cage of his chest, and he knows that he won’t be going home alone tonight.

It should maybe be a surprise that he’s so excited to realize Nate really wants to do this. He’d been perfectly okay with the idea that Nate might just leave him hanging, even after that little make out session in the kitchen.

Because Nate could be flighty like that, tricky. The dirty talk had seemed private enough, but it had been obvious that the kissing itself had been an act. But then again, Nate could have been putting on a seperate act just for Wade, because he played people the way a normal person breathed; without thinking.

So, although Wade’s hopes had been raised over the course of the night, he hadn’t let himself count on anything actually panning out. Those damn writers and their boner for his suffering again; it _would_ be pretty funny for him to get all worked up in public for Nate and then go home alone anyway.

Funny, yeah, like a bullet to the brain.

But Nate kissing him right there on the sidewalk, somewhere between chaste and obscene, is worth getting excited over. It’s been a minute (a _long_ minute) since they had any kind of regular Thing going on—

**_We called it a divorce._ **

—so he hadn’t expected genuine PDA from Nate. It was already established that the kitchen scene could’ve just been Nate laying it on for the party-goers, part of his elaborate plan to steer any situation he was part of toward his own satisfaction. But there was no one out here that mattered, no one to see them, no one to act for.

Maybe that’s a fiction. It could be. Wade chooses to believe in it, though, the same way he believes in the author giving a damn about his happiness. It is what is because it has to be.

Nate wants him like he wants Nate, which is enough like old times to make bodysliding back to his apartment feel perfectly natural. Nate shoves him up against his own kitchen counter almost as soon as they arrive. There’s a lot of crap cluttering his counter, because he’s not rich enough to have developed a minimalist kitchen and also because he never put the dishes away.

Shoved up hard against the counter, Wade hears plastic cups scatter and roll, several of them ending up on the floor, and you know what? He’s pretty okay with that, folks, because Nate’s tongue is in his throat and Nate’s hand is clutching his hip and Nate’s dick is hard against his thigh.

“Oh thank god, we’re not fading to black,” Wade says when they break for air, his arms around Nate’s shoulders, feeling the play of muscle and TO under three layers of fabric. Nate is _huge_ and that’s something he’d never stopped missing. Other people might put up with him long enough to throw him a fuck, but nobody was built like Nate, nobody could and would manhandle him the way he wanted.

Really, when you looked and acted like Wade, if you wanted to get fucked, you stopped worrying so much about your preferences and started focusing on making the other party as invested in not stopping as possible.

It’s never been like that with Nate. When they were a regular Thing—

**_Wouldn’t you say ‘married’ if we can call it ‘divorced’?_ **

_I think that’s a little too on-the-nose._

—Nate had always seemed to like Wade’s brand of ugly. It took some getting used to at the beginning, but god, after all this time it was nice to get back to. To have someone eager to get him undressed, eager to touch. Nate has Wade’s jacket off, button down shirt open except for the last two buttons, in a matter of seconds, flesh hand gliding up Wade’s torso, slow and appreciative of the feel. Wade’s still struggling to get Nate’s elaborately knotted tie undone, and it’s getting to the point where he’d rather just grab one of the knives off the counter behind him and cut it off.

And maybe Nate still can’t read his mind, but he _knows_ Wade, he cares enough to have picked up on the little things, so when Wade starts to get irritable about the tie, he pulls back from kissing the last of Wade’s brains out and deftly undoes it, tossing it casually to the floor.

“Oh, you smug bastard,” Wade snarls, grabbing his shirt and hauling him down for more kissing. Nate laughs, that easy (definitely smug) rumble, even as he leans into it, pushing Wade back so he’s bending down over the counter top. Who the fuck decided to let this man be so _tall_ ? Not that Wade really _minds_ , but jeeze, talk about unnecessary. Six-foot-eight, who needed to be that tall? Were the shelves in the future just that much higher? An evolutionary response to dumb interior design choices.

“I don’t think I’ve ever kissed someone who managed to talk so much through it.”

Well shit, that was all out loud, huh?

“I missed it,” Nate finishes. This time when he kisses Wade, Wade makes a point to remember to shut up, because he really doesn’t want Nate to hear any of the embarrassingly schmoopy shit that comes to mind just because Nate said he _missed_ him.

Nate always seems to run cool, or maybe it’s that Wade runs hot. Either way, the thumb that presses against Wade’s nipple is rough and cool, circling as fingers tighten against his skin, holding him just there. There’s always been something about making out with Nate, something especially good. Nate takes what he wants, but he does it with careful consideration to what Wade likes. He’d figured out that balance pretty damn quick the first time they’d fallen into bed together and never forgotten.

Sighing, bracing one hand on the edge of the counter and letting the other curve around Nate’s neck, Wade lets himself melt into that, gives up the fight, and lets Nate have the lead. Sometimes, especially if they’d been fighting, it would take all night for Wade to cave like this. Sometimes they were still snapping at one another even as they were scrambling for clothes or falling asleep. It’s been so long though, so long, and Wade doesn’t see any point in denying himself pleasure right now.

And it does feel good, it always feels good, letting Nate take control. Because it’s Nate, and even though he knows he’s a manipulative bastard, Wade trusts him at least this much. Trusts him to make it good.

“Your kitchen is a mess,” Nate grumbles, kicking one of the fallen cups as he’s stepping back to finish unbuttoning Wade’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. “How can I call you a good girl knowing you can’t even put your damn dishes away?”

Wade has things to say about that, sexist connotations and all, but then fingers are curling over his dick, and all he can get to leave his throat is an embarrassingly eager moan. Nate seems to like that, at least. Nate strokes him through his fancy slacks like he wants Wade to ruin them, and Wade’s more than willing.

“That’s the problem with you, isn’t it,” Nate carries on, conversational, like he doesn’t have his hand molded to Wade’s dick, giving him a seriously talented rub and tug through his trousers. “Always has been. You don’t want anybody to see what a good girl you are, you want everyone to think you’re hopeless, worthless, just another mess. A messy little brat no one should waste their time on, isn’t that right?”

Like with most things, Nate is very good at this, at talking down to Wade like this, humiliating him in just the right way. It makes his chest feel like it’s collapsing over his lungs, makes his head go fuzzy, like he can’t get words from brain to mouth. All he cares about is what Nate’s saying, what Nate wants, and it’s _good_ , it’s absolutely perfect.

“I know, though,” Nate says, and _squeezes_ , hard enough that it hurts, hard enough that Wade jerks into the touch and gasps. “I know you’re my good girl, you’re just _desperate_ for a firm hand. And you were _so_ good for me tonight, so even if you left your house a fucking mess, even if you keep trying to hide how good you are from me, I think you earned a reward.”

Just like that his hands are off Wade, he’s stepping away, and that doesn’t feel like a reward at all, that feels like the _opposite_. Wade groans, grabbing after Nate and finding his arms restrained by the shirt still tangled around his elbows. As he gracelessly struggles out of the shirt, Nate is carefully shrugging off his jacket, laying it over the back of the kitchen chair. Wade’s discarded clothes just pile on the floor, and that seems like some kind of narrative parallel, Wade’s sure, but he’s really beyond caring about how clever the author wants to get.

Nate’s hands are on his belt, but his eyes are on Wade, bright and demanding and Wade takes the two steps he needs to be back in Nate’s space, tugging at his collar for another kiss. It’s not good girl behaviour, he knows, but he _wants_ it, wants to see if Nate’s going to play this mean or if Nate’s as desperate for this as Wade, willing to compromise.

The kiss he gets is sweet but brief, Nathan’s hands on his shoulders, pushing him back and down. “On your knees for me, sweetheart. Just like that. Good girls get treats, and I know exactly what you want.”

It’s demeaning and arrogant and everything about it should make Wade angry -- or maybe it should make him laugh, because objectively the words, and the fact that Nate expects him to just go with it _are_ ridiculous.

Instead, it makes his heart seize up, beating thick and heavy in his throat as he drops to his knees. It hurts, it always hurts to land his full weight like that, but there’s something about it that’s so _right_. They could have moved five feet, a bare handful of steps, out of the kitchenette and onto the ratty stained carpet of the living room, and that would have given him some cushion for his knees, but it wouldn’t have been right. It wouldn’t have been what either of them wanted, not really.

What Wade wants right now is Nate to quit teasing and get his pants open, because all he’s done so far is toy with the belt, big hands blocking Wade from getting close. Wade is impatient, he always is, and it makes him lean in, mouthing at Nate’s fingers like he would love to be mouthing at his cock. That makes Nate laugh, and he finally, finally picks up the pace, belt undone, button popped, zipper down, fucking home run because _finally_ , there’s that dick Wade’s been missing.

Of course, Nate doesn’t let Wade have it right away. He’s got his trousers hitched down low and one hand around the base of his cock, the other resting on Wade’s brow, holding his head angled up, just enough force applied that Wade can’t try to lean in and get his mouth on what he wants. What he’s been after all goddamn night.

He opens his mouth to tell Nate not to tease, and Nate drags his cock along the line of Wade’s lower lip, lingering just long enough for Wade to press his tongue against the head, hands balled tight against his thighs, holding them against the urge to grab onto Nate’s hips and drag him in.

Good girls are patient, good girls don’t grab.

Blood rushes to his face and his dick when Nate purrs above him, obviously pleased. “There you are, my good girl, look at you. So patient, but so eager. You’ve been waiting for this all night, haven’t you? You really would have opened up and let me have you right there in that kitchen, where anybody could have come in, anyone could have seen.”

And yeah, yeah, Wade _absolutely_ would have. He never planned on seeing any of those people again so what the fuck was he supposed to care about their opinions of him for? They’d be so lucky as to get to see Nate’s dick anyway, so maybe it would have been a show of generosity.

“Next time maybe I _should_. Let everyone see what a good, obedient girl you can be,” Nate says, and Wade’s getting a little dizzy with all the blood rushing around his body, his cock hard as rock in his slacks and his face red all the way down his neck, blush spread from ears to chest. He wants to say something smart, just for appearances, just to prove that Nate’s not as smart as he thinks he is if he’s really calling _Wade_ good, but then Nate’s settling his stance and Wade’s suddenly got a much better use for his mouth.

It would be easy for Nate to tease more, to drag it out and make Wade work, but he thrusts into Wade’s mouth hard and fast, holding him when he gags, not letting him pull off. It’s rough and kind of mean, but it’s exactly what Wade was hoping for. There’s nothing like Nate just taking what he wants, the way Nate just expects Wade to be able to handle whatever he dishes out.

Nate’s always had this weird, backwards way of handling him, expecting him to figure his own way through anything after giving only the barest hint of instruction. This is no different. Wade can only react, there’s no time to think, no time to plan the way he might have planned out how he wanted the night go in a fantasy or with another person.

Hands gripping his head, tight and sure, giving him no room, Nate holds Wade with his nose mashed into curls of grey pubic hair, his throat filled so he can’t even try for a breath. Still, he keeps his hands down, digging his nails into his palms and pressing his knuckles hard against his thighs. He can’t keep himself from gagging, throat spasming around Nate’s cock. It seems to be a sensation Nate likes, judging by the low, happy growl Wade gets.

Only when he’s starting to get dizzy from lack of oxygen does Nate pull him off, giving Wade a moment to cough and wheeze in a few deep breaths before dragging him back down, filling him up again. Tears are pouring down Wade’s face by the third thrust, but he stops gagging after the fourth, and Nate changes tactics, fucking his mouth more than his throat. The taste of his precome is bitter, cloying, exactly how Wade remembers. He moans softly when Nate releases his hold and gives him room to move on his own, rocking back on his heels to suck at the head, running his tongue under the foreskin to see if it still makes Nate shiver like it always had before.

When it does, Wade lets himself smile. He’s got a right to be smug, even on his knees, even being Nate’s good girl, if he can make the would-be Saviour of Mutantkind shudder like he’s a heartbeat away from coming already.

Really, Wade could come just like this. He’s trying not to, not because it would put an end to the night—unless something’s changed in the last couple of years, Nate can go all night, and he knows Wade can too. No, he’s holding off because the lacy red silk cradling his junk is pretty cute and he’d rather Nate get the full effect.

And good girls have _some_ self control. He can hear Nate mocking him for ruining his panties already, and honestly, it’s not really helping him not do it.

He sucks Nate’s cock like it’s his new job, and when he starts leaning into it, trying to work Nate back into his throat, Nate groans appreciatively, petting over his scalp fondly. Wade can feel the effort he’s putting into holding himself still in the way Nate seems to tremble slightly every time Wade’s tongue swirls just right.

“Yeah, there we go, just like that,” Nate praises, something in his tone straddling the line between condescension and genuine pleasure. “You can get me off with just your mouth, right Wade? Keep your hands right there in your lap, yeah. So good like this, god, my beautiful good girl, right where you belong.”

Nate’s hips jerk, aborted thrusts into the clutch of Wade’s throat again, and then he comes, holding Wade tight in his hands and spilling on his tongue. He tastes just like Wade remembers, and it doesn’t matter for a moment what Nate wants from him, he greedily, blindly goes on sucking, swallowing everything Nate has to give.

Finally, Nate releases him, pulls away, leaving Wade there on his knees, tears and drool streaking his face. He’s panting a little, looking up at Nate, and Nate looks back down at him like he’s something perfect and precious, something he’d missed.

“Stand up, Wade,” Nate commands, and there’s no universe where Wade could be compelled to disobey. It’s a little difficult; Wade feels dizzy and unsteady, which makes his first few attempts too shaky to actually get him up. Nate is patient, though, and once Wade finally manages it, he’s rewarded with a sweet kiss, the kind that steals his breath away without Nate even slipping tongue in.

Fingers find his belt and deftly unclasp the buckle, pulling it neatly from the loops to drop it on the floor. It’s noisy against the linoleum, clattering, but Wade stays still, letting Nate unbutton his trousers. He barely has to work once they’re open for them to slide from his hips, pooling around his feet. Which feels a little awkward, a little more like he’s _exposed_ , because his shoes are still on.

Not much time to worry about that when thick fingers are curling under the waistband of his panties, soothing where the delicate, scar-mottled skin has been rubbed raw by lace-shrouded elastic. “Was this supposed to be for me? Or was it just for you?”

There’s something to be said about the way Nate can talk, the way he can make a simple question slide like a knife through the ribs, so Wade can’t seem to breathe, can’t seem to get any air, all he can think about is the rumble of the words, the dull panic of feared disapproval. Something to be said, too, about how very badly Wade wants Nate to appreciate the things he does, even the dumb, weird, little things.

Things like wearing impractical and vaguely uncomfortable lingerie under his clothes just to surprise Nate.

Years ago it would have gone without saying that Nate would have liked the red lace just barely restraining his dick, the way it lovingly framed his ass. Years ago their on again, off again Thing had been more _on_ than _off_ and even when they were trying to kill each other, even when they were _succeeding_ at killing each other, the idea that they understood and cared about one another had been implicit.

Post-divorce it was… well.

“Six of one,” Wade manages when Nate looks at him, the particular look that says he expects an answer.

And if there’s something to be said about Nate being able to wield words like knives against Wade, then there’s something too, something about how a single look, soft and adoring, can still make Wade feel like he’s done a bump of cocaine and lept from a rooftop. Exhilarated, soaring, no thought for the inevitable crash.

“Bet it made you feel good, didn’t it? Walking around all those uptight assholes, blending in with them, talking to them, and the whole time you were really just dressed up special for me. Mine to unwrap, mine to see.”

Maybe Wade should argue. Put up a fight, bicker, something. He’s been years without Nate’s weirdly arrogant, possessive bullshit; years that proved he didn’t _need_ it, not to get off and certainly not to get _by_. He doesn’t need Nate and Nate doesn’t need him.

What is need, though, next to this kind of _want_.

Nate’s fingers curl around the silk, bunching the lace up, rough and strange against the heat of his cock. He jacks him slowly, working him until Wade shivers and moans, staggering to sink against Nate’s shoulder. He half trips, uncoordinated and clumsy with his slacks tangled around his ankles, but Nate steadies him, one hand firmly braced on Wade’s shoulder while the other moves to the jut of his hip.

“Go get on the bed. I’ll be right there.”

Nate releases him and takes a step away. Wade kicks his shoes off and steps out of his pants, leaving them bundled on the kitchen floor as he scurries to the bedroom. It’s seen better days, but there’s nothing nasty on the bedspread for a change, and he’s pretty sure he and Nate have fucked in nastier places than Wade’s lived-in mess of a room. Bombed out buildings and next to corpses and on Nate’s shitty Spartan-living futon back when Providence was new.

At least Wade has a real _bed_ , thank you very much. He doesn’t even have a headboard to smack into the wall and alert the neighbours.

He’d manage that with organically, with his voice, the way nature intended.

Sprawling across the bed, he arranges himself on his stomach with one leg drawn up, so Nate gets a nice clear picture of the way the panties hug his ass. He doesn’t have to wait long to hear the effect the sight has, Nate’s arrival announced by the sharp intake of breath and the eager approach of footsteps.

The mattress creaks when Nate sits down next to Wade, hand immediately on his ass. Nate had never been bothered by the sores and the scars, the tumors and various tears only ever made him touch more carefully, gentle even when Wade wanted it rough. Time apart hasn’t changed that, if it’s changed anything. Nate still touches him like he’s a treat he’s been saving for a rainy day, palms sliding over uneven skin and silk, kneading his ass before starting to tug the panties down.

“Red was always your colour,” he says, appreciative but tense, like he didn’t just come down Wade’s throat. “Next time, wear the dress.”

“What dress?”

“Cute. Slutty.”

Nate’s voice is clipped, his movements tense. Wade buries his face in the crook of his elbow as the panties are drawn off and tossed away. Sometimes Nate likes to waste time, tease, draw it out to be an asshole. Wade can remember nights that had gone on and on for hours, Nate keeping him on edge but refusing to let him come, or making him come so many times he thought his dick would just fall off from over stimulation by the end of it.

Tonight seems a lot more focused, like making up for lost time. Nate spreads him open and pours lube right on, cold and smelling like—

“Ooh, you found the coconut stuff, I wondered where that went.”

“Breadbox,” Nate says, circling two fingers over his hole, giving Wade something nicer to focus on than the way the excess lube is crawling over his balls. “With a bunch of those disgusting Sno-Balls you love. I’m guessing there was a theme.”

It’s all so familiar, so warm and perfect, even as Nate’s shoving into him with two fingers, scissoring mercilessly, forcing him to take it with his free hand pressing hard against the small of Wade’s back. Nate knows his limits and pushes him right back into that headspace he’d fallen into in the kitchen, that place where there’s no more words, no more snark, where there’s only room for sensation and the need to please Nate. The need to obey, to make him proud.

When he arches into Nate’s hand, straining to push away from the mattress and onto the three fingers that are just _not_ _enough_ , Nate makes this noise, something both condescending and sincere, and Wade knows he’s sliding back into his role as well even before he speaks.

“You’ve been so good for me tonight, Wade. Best behaviour from my best girl. I know it wasn’t easy, but you did so well. You should be proud of yourself. Are you proud, Wade?”

Mouth working, heart fluttering, whole body seemingly wired with pleasure, Wade knows he’s supposed to answer, knows he’s supposed to agree, but it’s hard, once again, just to breathe. He wants, _wants_ , and he knows what he has to do for more, but part of him still vies desperately for Nate’s mercy. Give him more and he’ll say anything Nate wants, do anything, be anyone.

“C’mon, sweetheart, I know you can do better than that,” Nate croons, and his fingers still, pulled almost entirely out of him. “Are you proud, Wade? Say, _yes, Nate, I worked hard_.”

Whining, straining against the hand on the small of his back to try and rock against Nate’s tortuously still fingers, Wade grits his teeth, trying to force his brain to function well enough to make his mouth do actual words again. “Proud.. _Please, fuck, Nate,_ yes, I… I’m proud, I worked hard, I did, please, please just, please…”

Nate tsks, humming a little sympathetic noise, and shoves his fingers forward again, mashing Wade’s prostate. Wade’s scream is muffled by the bedding, but even that’s not enough to drown out Nate’s string of praise. “There’s my good girl, perfect obedient girl, so tight and eager for me. But I still haven’t heard a single word of gratitude out of you. I took you to a party, I gave you a very generous reward. Now I’m giving you another, and all I’ve heard is my sweet girl begging me for more.”

Like he minds. Nate loves making Wade beg. That was half the reason they kept fucking this up every time they tried to make it work. Nate likes to be needed, likes to be a center of everyone’s world, to feel important and required. He couldn’t control Wade and he couldn’t read his mind, so he relied on manipulation, which Wade had figured out long before demanding a divorce for a relationship they never even really defined properly.

In the end, Nate had gone too far, but really that had been bound to happen when they refused to talk about what they were doing, much less discuss boundaries.

Wade knows all that, knows it and has resented it, sat and stewed and wallowed in anger and self loathing on and off for way too long. He knows that Nate gets nothing but positive reinforcement if he complies.

But what else is he supposed to do when Nate’s fingerblasting him into the next century, hitting all the right buttons and somehow still managing to not be enough to get off on.

“Thank you!” He says, pants, breathy and on the edge of embarrassingly loud. “Thank you, Nate, thank you for the party and the fucking canapes and telling that bitch I was right and thank you, _god_ , thank you for fucking my face when we got home but for the love of god would you fucking _fuck me_ , Nate, please, please, anything, god!”

“So _enthusiastic_ , my good, eager girl,” Nate crows, pulling his hands away entirely, slapping the back of Wade’s thigh hard enough that Wade _jumps_ , skin burning at the impact. “Get on your hands and knees, then, sweetheart. Face against the sheets. Very good, look at you, so pretty, so ready for me.”

It would be easy for Nate to drag this out even more, to keep edging Wade, keep teasing him. Worse, Wade would let him, because Nate had figured out a long time ago exactly how to make Wade enjoy all that shit. And maybe, whether Wade wants to admit it or not, he’s starved enough for this that he’ll take anything Nate is willing to give, even if he’s never allowed to come at all.

Luckily, Nate must not be feeling particularly sadistic tonight, because he settles behind Wade and fucks him open in sharp, efficient motions. The bed muffles Wade’s fervent moaning enough that he doesn’t _think_ anyone’s going to file a noise complaint this time. When Nate curls over him, grinding more than fucking, and takes Wade’s cock in his hand, Wade  _sobs_.

It’s good, it’s everything he’s missed about being with Nate, and really, hasn’t it been long enough? Haven’t both of them _clearly_ suffered enough from the separation?

Teeth nip at the skin of his shoulders and it seems like Nate is everywhere, mindful and attentive to every inch of him, and the idea of that, of Nate caring so much that it could somehow envelope him, swallow him whole in good feelings, makes Wade gasp, seize, and come. The way Nate fondles him through it, all considering, careful touches, makes it feel prolonged, heady and drawn out.

Because Wade is a good girl, and because that was the best orgasm Wade’s had in recent memory, definitely top five of all time, Wade stays on his knees. Holds himself steady as Nate finally puts his back into it, fucking him like it’s the single most important thing in the world.

Collapsed together afterwards, laying wrong-ways on the bed, legs still tangled, Nate’s arm across Wade’s back, Wade can’t help but feel like this is, maybe, a little special. Even when falling into bed together was a regular part of their friendship, cuddling hadn’t been. They either fell asleep (and then one of them snuck out, most times) or they had to keep moving because they were supposed to be working.

Now, here they lay, both exhausted but awake, pleasantly wrapped in one another.

“I wasn’t joking earlier,” Nate says abruptly, and Wade has to drag his eyes open to try and gauge his face.

“I can get a dress, but you have to tell me when the next party is or else it’s gonna cost extra.”

It’s a good sign, really, that Nate smiles at that. It’s a gentle smile, fond, easy; it’s the kind of sincerely, sleepily amused smile that used to make Wade’s heart burst with butterflies. Maybe still does, a little.

“When I said I missed you,” he clarifies, and if the butterflies were’t swarming before, they sure are now, warm and flighty so it feels like his chest is going to burst in the cutest, goriest birth possible. “I really have. Even the bad jokes.”

“Got a million of ‘em,” Wade says, like he’s not casually dying of dopamine poisoning. Nate sounds so genuine, almost sad about it, like he’s also thinking of all the years between then and now, all the wasted opportunities, all the mind-blowingly good sex that could have been had.

He doesn’t want Nate sad, doesn’t want him thinking; he just wants him to stay.

So he scoots closer, letting that heavy arm curl against his back, and kisses Nate, sweet and slow. Nate keeps him close even as Wade tucks his face against Nate’s neck and closes his eyes.

Maybe tomorrow they’ll talk like the adults they’re supposed to be. Maybe tomorrow they’ll address all the complicated emotional bullshit they’re both such experts at ignoring. Maybe tomorrow they can talk about officially un-divorcing.

Tonight, though, Wade’s finally ready for that fade-to-black thing. He’s got Nate in his bed, breathing slow and heavy as he falls asleep, and that feels like enough of a resolution for him.


End file.
